The Maze - the Lost Labyrinth (11 page)

Darrell Gene wasn’t sure whether to open the door or not. The man knocked again before pushing his wire-framed glasses up on his nose. The visitor had a very casual demeanor that made Darrell Gene feel a little more at ease about the whole situation.

“Stop worrying,” the television whispered. “You’ve got at least sixty pounds on the guy.”

And it was true. Darrell Gene carried two-hundred and sixty solid pounds on a five-foot eight-inch frame. He wasn’t muscular by any stretch of the imagination, but he was imposing, beefy. Years spent in various sweatshops doing manual labor had made sure of that. If the man was here to make life hard, Darrell Gene knew he could straighten things out on his own.

It had been a while since he’d gotten into a fight of any sort, but, somehow he didn’t think that would be much of a problem.

After weighing his options and sizing up the man on the front porch, Darrell Gene decided to see what the visitor wanted, but only because he didn’t want to spend the next week wondering if the man had come with good news of some sort. It was unlikely, sure, but Darrell Gene was always hoping for a miracle, even if one never occurred.

Maybe this was one of those guys from Publisher’s Clearing House here to inform him that his name had been drawn at random as the winner of a multi-million dollar prize. Darrell Gene wondered if cameramen would swarm at him the minute he opened the door, if the doors of a van would open up to release hundreds of multi-colored balloons into the air, if a beautiful newswoman was waiting in the wings to interview him after the man on the porch presented him with his check.

He opened the door and the man smiled. It wasn’t a forced smile but rather one that seemed relaxed and at home on a jovial face. There were no cameramen, no balloons, no newswoman. Much to his chagrin, Darrell Gene didn’t see anything to suggest that a new life was waiting around the corner for him. He sighed with disappointment and then cleared his throat, wanting to cut to the chase. “Yeah? Can I help you?”

“Mr. Rankin?” The man extended his hand. “I’m Carl Beckett from the River of Life Baptist Church. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do you have a minute?”

Darrell Gene froze, wondering how he could have been so stupid. This man was here to preach to him. His first instinct was to slam the door in the missionary’s face, but the man had taken a step forward, buying a few precious seconds of additional time with which to spread his propaganda. It was one of their tactics. He had dealt with this kind before.

“Um, I’m really kind of busy right now.” Darrell Gene stammered out an answer. “And church doesn’t interest me much.”

“I understand,” Carl said. “I don’t want to seem pushy. I just thought I’d stop by for a moment and see if you went to church anywhere.”

Darrell Gene thought back to that Sunday so many years ago when his mother left him and his father..

“I know all I need to know about the church.” He didn’t bother to hide his bitterness and resentment.

“I take it you’ve had a bad experience of some sort.”

“You could say that. My mother ran off when I was seven. She left my father and me for a deacon. They got married the day after the divorce was final.”

It was obvious from the look of shock on Carl Beckett’s face that he hadn’t been prepared for a curveball like that. “Um, I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

Carl shifted from foot to foot, a little nervous now. “This is going to sound strange,” he began, “but someone told me that I should visit you. It even sounded strange to me at the time.”

“Who?” Darrell Gene thrust both hands into his pockets and fingered the loose change that rested there. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a loner. Not too many people care about me, and there aren’t too many people I care about in return.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure.” Carl forced a smile. “But it sure does seem like someone wants to see you saved. I found a note in my mailbox with your name on it and a message that said ‘Visit Him.’ And so I’m here.”

“A note?” Darrell Gene shuddered involuntarily as a chill raced across the back of his neck.

“Yep. It was written on a little scrap of paper. Someone had dropped it into my mailbox.”

“Your mailbox?”

“Yeah, it seemed a little unorthodox, but I figured there must have been a good reason why the author of the note did things that way.”

“And you came here based on that?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Carl shifted from foot to foot impatiently.

“But you have no idea who left the note?” Darrell Gene got the strangest sense of déjà vu.

“No,” Carl said. “I came here because I know the Lord works in mysterious ways. I figured this must be one of them.”

“Weird.” Darrell Gene thought this couldn’t be simple coincidence. “But it doesn’t prove anything. I’m sure you take it as a sign from Heaven that you’re meant to witness to me and lead me to God. It’s written in the stars or something like that. That’s the way you holy rollers think.”

“I’m just doing what I feel in my heart. I’m sure you’re doing the same.”

“I don’t think I am,” Darrell Gene said. “Somehow, I don’t think you’d like it very much if I did what was in my heart.”

“Oh.” Carl took a step back. For the first time, it seemed like he saw Darrell Gene as more of a potential threat than a potential convert.

“I’m sure you have a very specific idea about the kind of heart I have. You probably think it’s black and corrupted by sin.”

“It’s not my place to judge,” Carl said. “That’s not why I’m here at all.”

“No, it’s not your place to judge.”

“I just came here to offer my friendship, to invite you to church. I meant no harm. Please don‘t assume that.”

“I don’t assume anything about people, and I sure don’t trust ‘em. Just when you think you know a guy, he turns out to be a liar, a fraud, or a backstabber.”

“I’m sure you’ve experienced a lot of things in your life that would lead you to believe that. But not everyone lives that way.”

“I guess you’re referring to yourself.”

“Not at all,” Carl replied. “I’ve got faults just like everyone else. But I try to live right. I try to become a better person every day.”

“It sounds good in theory, but I’m not interested. Go tell it on the mountain or something. Just get out of my face.”

“Do you attend church anywhere, Mr. Rankin?” Carl asked persistently.

“Hello? Where have you been for the last five minutes? Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said. No, never been big on church, especially not after what happened to my family. Besides, I‘m not the kind of guy who fits in at a place like that. People take one look at me, and immediately the first thing they feel is pity. They think they need to take up a love offering or collect canned goods. They think I‘m a charity case or a danger to society. Take those people across the street for example.” Darrell Gene immediately realized he’d said too much.

“The Burroughs? You wouldn’t find a sweeter bunch of people.”

“I see the way they look at me. It’s like they think I’m a pervert or white trash or a criminal.”

“They’re good folks,” Carl said. “I’m sure they don’t mean to come off the way they do.”

“Well, if those are the kind of people that go to your church then I don’t want to hear about it. I definitely don‘t want to be part of a group like that.”

“You’d fit in fine,” Carl insisted. “Everyone does. We welcome anyone who wants to be included. Why don’t you try it once and see? What could it hurt?”

“Why don‘t you get a clue?” The world seemed to shift under Darrell Gene’s feet. He tried to think of an excuse that sounded plausible. “I’ve got to work this Sunday anyway.”

“I know what it’s like to feel left out of things.” Carl ignored Darrell Gene‘s protest. “I used to be a shy, introverted guy who would barely speak two words to anyone. I’m still shy to a point, but the church is the one placed where I feel accepted, wanted, needed. The people there love me.”

“I don’t need love,” Darrell Gene said. “I’ve made it all these years without.”

“There are people praying for you,” Carl explained. “I firmly believe that. Otherwise, that note would have never made its way into my mailbox, and I wouldn’t be here now. I‘m praying for you too.”

That stopped Darrell Gene where he stood. “I want you to go away.”

Although he didn’t want to admit it, something stirred inside him, and reacted to what Carl was saying. More than anything else, he wanted to shut the door and leave this nut job standing out in the cold, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not even when he heard the microwave cursing from the kitchen and ordering him to close the door.

Carl held up both hands. “I understand. I don’t want to try and pressure you into anything. I think I’ve said enough for now. I can go now and come back some other time that’s more convenient.”

“That might be for the best,” Darrell Gene admitted. “My head feels a little muddled.”

“Conviction sometimes works that way. Why don’t I stop by later on in the week?”

“Just go!” Darrell Gene shut the door in Carl’s face. “Now!”

“It’s all a big lie,” the appliances told him once the door was closed again. “If God is love, then why did He allow your family to fall apart?”

It was a fair question. “You tell me,” Darrell Gene said. “You seem to be a regular fount of information.”

“I would think the answer to be an obvious one. Your life certainly hasn’t been filled with a lot of love.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“So you know we’re telling you the truth. We’re leveling with you, not trying to fill you with a bunch of false hope.”

“But the things I’m doing---they’re helping you. Isn’t that right? Tormenting the family across the street hasn’t changed my life one little bit.”

“Not yet.”

Darrell Gene’s head snapped up at the implied promise. “What do you mean?”

“Just trust us. You wouldn’t question us, now would you?”

Darrell Gene tried to sort out the truth in his head and heart.

“I’ll let you know.”

Chapter 17

Angels and demons faced each other on Darrell Gene’s kitchen table, and the tension was as thick as a blanket. Sabers were held high, and wings were aflutter as both armies prepared for battle. Darrell Gene surveyed his handiwork as he used a whetstone to sharpen his pocket knife. He ran the blade along the rough surface until he was satisfied that it was ready. He had done this very thing a hundred times or more when he was preparing to cut something, and although the task was menial, he found it calming in a mundane sort of way. The rhythm of the steel scraping against the rock, the steady motion of his arm pushing the knife along and then pulling it back toward him soothed him. The process was almost as calming as actually using the knife to create shape and semblance where there was none.

As a test, he ran the blade along one forearm and watched in satisfaction as the knife shaved the hair without so much as a snag. “Perfect.”

He carefully selected a fresh block of wood and began to carve.

He had never been much of a churchgoer, but all the recent talk about God and redemption had roused a certain curiosity in him. He remembered his grandmother telling him stories from the Bible. He forgot most of them as quickly as he heard them, but a few fascinated him and were with him even now. The writing on the wall, the burning bush, and Saul and the Witch of Endor were exciting stories, but none intrigued him so much as the account of the war in Heaven. Angel fighting against angel in a battle that saw one-third of the Heavenly Host cast out. There was just something about the idea of a celestial war of good versus evil that made him continually question which side he was on. Deep down, he wanted to be good and do the right thing. Unfortunately, it never seemed to work out that way.

Every time he thought about war in Heaven, he envisioned the way the skies must have looked, stained with the blood of seraphim and full of falling stars. In that ever-playing movie in his mind, the air was rife with lazy, floating feathers and the screams of the damned. Somewhere in the distance, a war trumpet sounded and God’s faithful armies rallied to defend the Eternal City. Had there been any witnesses to this event, it might have looked like a meteor shower as the rebels were thrown out and hurled toward the Earth. The thought gave him chills.

Years ago when the voices started, he began carving a collection of angels out of blocks of oak to depict the event. He had wooden likenesses of Michael and Lucifer, of course, along with dozens of other angels with names like Uriel, Nathaniel, Azazel, and Ashtoth. Some of them waved swords. Other brandished morning stars. Some bore an uncanny likeness to various birds of prey as their talons were bared and ready to rip the enemy to shreds.

He thought about eventually using the carvings as chess pieces even though he had no idea how to play the game. For now, however, he was content to set them up in opposition and let his mind fill in the blanks. Darrell Gene had a very bloody imagination, and soon he discovered that he didn‘t have enough carvings for all of the destruction he had in mind.

The one he worked on now was a wingless angel, a rebel who had been deplumed and cast out of Heaven because of his disobedience and allegiance to Lucifer. A misfit just like him. As Darrell Gene let the knife do its work, he found himself empathizing with the wooden figure, imagining the way it must have felt to be part of a group one moment and then painfully alone the next. It wasn’t such a difficult thing to envision. He had gone through it time and time again, moving from job to job, trying to fit in but failing miserably. In the end, he was a lot like this wingless angel, robbed of his true purpose, his true calling. The angel, unable to fly anymore, wasn’t even an angel in the truest sense of the word. Darrell Gene, likewise, scarcely felt human.

He wanted to fly, to be free of the constraints of this earth, but there was a deadly soul-condemning price for that kind of freedom. Lucifer’s army had been thrown of out Heaven for that kind of freedom. Of course, Darrell Gene already felt like an outcast and would have gladly paid any price to feel differently. If only he had half of the power that the fallen had...